Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [94]
“It’ll be dark in a few hours,” said Shelby. “Hand me that pad and pen?”
I saw the set on her one remaining side table and passed it to her. “It will be dark,” she said again. “You can stay here until the sun goes down, if you want.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to braid your hair and talk about boys,” I said. One side of her mouth curved up.
“I’ll draw you a map of the building with the cameras and security routes,” she said. “At least the ones I know of. The Skull is probably in Seamus’s private safe, in the apartment he keeps adjacent to his offices.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. Never mind that I didn’t know how to crack a safe, despite that idiotic rumor about cops being the best criminals. If I could open vaults and get away with it, I’d be living on my own private island, with a yacht and a helicopter to land on it. That, and a closet the size of Fenway Park to hold all of my designer shoes.
“Don’t thank me,” said Shelby, “because aside from the map, all I can offer you is luck.”
The sun was a thin smear of orange over the bay. I got my car keys and jacket. “I’ll be going,” I told Shelby, tucking her hand-drawn diagram of Seamus’s apartment into my pocket.
“Don’t bother calling if you get it,” said Shelby in her oh-so-encouraging way. “I have a feeling I’ll find out soon enough.” She had the grace not to add that if I didn’t get it, I wouldn’t have to call either, because I’d be dead or beyond the point where talking was strictly possible.
I let my mind wander as I drove the few blocks to the O’Halloran Tower. I should have called Sunny. Too late now. If she knew what I was up to she’d call Mac and he’d raise all kinds of hell and screw the whole thing up. I should have been nicer to Trevor the last time we talked. I should have never let Dmitri Sandovsky into my life. He was the only one I didn’t have any regrets over.
“Stop talking like you’re going to die,” I told myself, in my rearview mirror. “It’s depressing as hell.”
The tower was quiet at seven P.M., one lonely security guard stationed by the camera bank in the lobby and one receptionist who’d pulled the short straw at the information desk. I scanned the list of brass plates posted just to the right of the door and picked out a name on a high floor. I ignored the guard, because a normal civilian would, and went to the receptionist.
“Maybe you can help me?”
He looked up, bored. “What do you need, miss?”
“Could you tell me which office Gerard Mansfield is in?”
The receptionist clicked at his computer. He was wearing a cheap polyblend vest that was supposed to make him look professional and his nametag said EMMANUEL. I felt bad for Emmanuel, because I was probably going to get him fired.
“Suite seventy-six, on the thirty-eighth floor,” he said.
“And the elevators are still running?” I asked with a perky smile. “Mr. Mansfield’s expecting me.”
Emmanuel gave me a look well beyond his years, that said he was wise to my line of BS and wasn’t inclined to go for it. “If he were expecting you, he would have told you that the elevators stop running without a keycard at six o’clock.”
Dammit, I had factored in cameras and Joshua’s force of thugs, but I hadn’t counted on a smart minimum-wage slave blocking my path.
“It’s a very personal appointment,” I purred, placing one hand on his arm. I should have unbuttoned the top button of my shirt, or worn tighter jeans, or something. Emmanuel wasn’t going for it.
“Lady, if you don’t have business in the tower, you’re going to have to leave,” he said primly.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll level with you. I’m Jess McMillan with the SEC. Mr. Mansfield contacted us confidentially some time ago with information about inappropriate